


Phosphenes

by slothesaurus



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Introspection, M/M, Shooting Stars, a bit of Seijou love, a bit of hajime being yuutarou's subtle and awesome senpai, hajime iwaizumi is the best damn mom, its like one line guys, iwaoi being iwaoi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-14 00:27:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4543191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slothesaurus/pseuds/slothesaurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are kings and commoners, geniuses and amateurs, galaxies and planets.</p><p>And then. Then, there is --</p><p>“Oikawa.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phosphenes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArturoSavinni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArturoSavinni/gifts).



> Hooray for my first Seijou fic! This is dedicated to my darling arturosavinni who fills me with a damn lot of iwaoi feels. I've been wanting to write these two for a while now so I hope all my percolating has helped produce a most wondrous experience for you all. Feel free to talk Seijou feels with me. That stuff is damn good.

**phos·phene**

ˈfäsfēn/  
_noun_  
plural noun: **phosphenes**  
          a ring or spot of light produced by pressure on the eyeball or direct stimulation of the visual system other than by light.

 

\--- 

 

There are kings and commoners, geniuses and amateurs, galaxies and planets.

There are serves that shatter dreams, receives that keep them together, spikes that bruise hope, and blocks that blind strength.

There are winners and losers, first place golds and second place silvers.

Among all of them, none continue to exist once Hajime Iwaizumi closes his eyes.

 

\---

 

When it comes to Seijou’s setter, Hajime is adept at looking for things others would never even notice. These things are minute and countless, a slow and steady tower of facts where Hajime finds himself guardian of. Every piece of his throne another inch higher to see all the angles, sharp and narrow or otherwise. For example --

Tooru Oikawa believes in many things.

His team. His ace. His dreams. His daily haircare routine.

If he were asked to list them down, the first thing Hajime thinks to write is --

_Aliens_

Spaceships and extra limbs scrawled in the chunky wax colors of his childhood, bright and vivid lines sketching a gap-toothed smile that always punctuates every sentence with _‘Iwa-chan.’_

They are otherworldly beings, sometimes hungry for knowledge, sometimes hungry for blood. But whatever they starve for on nights when children huddle in forts to watch movies of endless voids and distant star systems, the way they light up Oikawa’s face in the dark of a room must count for something.

The last thing Hajime thinks of, the thought carefully caught in a butterfly net woven from years of whispered worries and heavy silences, is -- 

_Oikawa_

Oikawa, the boy. Oikawa, the setter. Oikawa, the captain. Oikawa. Oikawa. Oikawa.

His strength trails the volleyball of his deadly serves. His eyes are a shade countless girls try to find in hallways and gymnasiums. His name perches on the tip of everyone else’s tongue.

Hajime wonders, not for the first time, why his best friend can see all the possibilities on the court, but can barely make them out in his own reflection.

 

\---

 

Even when his sight eludes him, darkness a blanket over his tired eyes when the sky sleeps and dreams take flight, Hajime looks at the patchwork face of things unspoken right in the eye.

It is a gift, he thinks. A small trinket of ability that dyes moments and nuances visible to him when others simply brush past them unknowingly. They wisp and waver like tinted smoke rising between bodies numbered one, two, three, four.

Hajime counts them fondly, watches the numbers etched over hearts that beat in time with the thud of a volleyball, sees the kindling made of want flare and warm him down to his toes, glances at the familiar spark and crackle spilling forth from mouths that barter the melody they all sing:

_Rule the court._

The raw heat of a fresh spike burns, sting a thunderous applause that starts from his palm and ends at his fingetips.

A point for a point for a point. Each one a chapter, simple and crude in how it retells the story of who wanted it, and who wanted it _more_.

It is odd, that way. That instead of a happily ever after, the victors win nothing more than another page to fill. That instead of an untimely demise, the losers are given the same as a consolation prize.

The sets end, the volleys break, but the teams walk on, camaraderie a cord of alternating colors held tight between figures that tug each other along.

If trust could be touched and gripped, Hajime imagines it in a setter’s hands, sweeping curves sanded down by six handprints painting fragments of their worth. The heft is heavy with hunger and hope, and to strike it through the other side, to send it to kings and geniuses who know nothing but their own trappings, is to show them that if there is a trust that could be touched and gripped, it is colored in Seijou blues and whites, and fits perfectly in Oikawa’s hands.

 

\---

 

The afternoon light coming in through the window bathes them in honey, Hajime feels time thicken like molasses, stares at the bowl before him silently. The moment scant, but still long enough for him to witness sunlight glint off of hot broth like medals made of gold.

He shoves the first tangle of noodles in his mouth expecting it to taste like victory, but the flavor lacks the tang of a straight set win and the killer spike of a perfect toss.

He glances at his teammates past the steam wafting up from his bowl, catches the glint of gold in the dampness of Kindaichi’s eyes, and belatedly finds himself hungry.

They are all hungry, he realizes. Stomachs empty and eyes full, they are hungry and beaten in pieces that can’t be put back together the same way anymore.

Hajime takes a slurp, graciously masking Kindaichi’s next sniffle, and turns to look at the bar where their captain is.

He is not expecting a semblance of victory on the other boy’s face, but that is what greets him.

Oikawa is there at the bar, stool swinging to laugh at Hanamaki as he brandishes another bowl like a king at his banquet.

The sun is setting behind Oikawa, light fluttering around him as he laughs and throws his head back to avoid a jab to the face.

Hajime watches from behind a light curtain of steam, and thinks that a halo suits the setter better than a crown ever did.

They are hungry and beaten, but they are _Seijou_. Right here, right now, for a few moments more, they are Seijou.

Stained with sunlight and watching his best friend avoid a pair of chopsticks to the nose, Hajime shoves another mouthful of noodles past his lips, and feels gold melt into blue and white.

 

\---

 

There are winners and losers, first place golds and second place silvers.

And then, there are setters.

There are serves that shatter dreams, receives that keep them together, spikes that bruise hope, and blocks that blind strength.

And then, there are tosses that count on you.

There are kings and commoners, geniuses and amateurs, galaxies and planets.

And then. _Then_ , there is --

“Oikawa.”

The lights are off and the room is blanketed in darkness.

Under the faint light from outside, Oikawa looks at him from his seat near the window, pillows piled into a nest with crumbs of milk bread sprinkled about. “What is it, Iwa-chan?”

Hajime’s brow furrows at the mess, blood slowly simmering until he sees a dot of cream on the corner of his best friend’s mouth.

His bare feet pad towards the other boy, toes just barely grazing the base of the nest which Hajime belatedly registers as the pillows from his bed.

“What the hell are you, five?” He grunts before firmly grasping Oikawa’s chin and wiping the cream off with a gentle sweep of his thumb.

Oikawa hums and looks at him the way he always does. Rapt and fully attentive, mouth slightly curved in an infuriating and comforting smile. “Iwa-chan, are you trying to be a good mom for once?”

His grip on Oikawa’s chin shifts up to clutch at his forehead, “What was that, Trashkawa?”

“I was kidding,” Oikawa whines as Hajime tightens his grip slightly, fingers sliding through his hair and jiggling his head back and forth, “I was kidding, Iwa-chan, you’re a very good mom already!”

Hajime freezes, his room quiet and the air still. There is a moment of clarity between them, Oikawa silently witnessing his life flash before his eyes the very second before Hajime shoves his head back into the mountain of pillows and sits on him, both hands devastating his carefully styled hair while yelling in frustration.

“Let’s fucking see if you can still talk like that to me when you’re bald as the day you were born, Shittykawa.” He hisses down at him with no mercy in his eyes.

Oikawa’s eyes are wide and glassy in the dim light of the moon, filled with horror and betrayal, “Oh my god, Iwa-chan, _no_ , please--

Something flashes from outside Hajime’s window, light trailing across the ink black sky.

“Wait, Iwa-chan, pause, pause,” Oikawa shrieks and shoves Hajime off with a sudden wave of passion-induced strength, “It’s starting!”

Hajime falls back with a grunt, watching his friend turn away from him and smash his face against the window like he actually is five years old again.

“Come on, little stars, don’t let Iwa-chan’s ugly face scare you off.” He coos gently into the glass, earning a thwack to the back of his head that shoves his face even further up against the window.

“Fucking ass,” Hajime grumbles before settling beside him and shoving a pillow on to his lap, “why the hell I even agreed to you sleeping over for this, I’ll never know.”

Oikawa’s face is still staring up at the murky darkness of the sky, eyes familiarly intense and focused. He smiles, but this time it is less of a comfort and more of what keeps Hajime up at odd hours, staring angrily at the house across from his with his phone pressed to his ear, dialer repeatedly calling a number that’s been turned off for the night.

“Iwa-chan wouldn’t say no to me,” Oikawa whispers somberly, “this is my consolation prize, after all.”

It’s silent again, Hajime shifts in his seat, the rustle of cushions loud as he drags a particularly stuffed pillow out from the pile and hits Oikawa across the face with it.

Oikawa yelps and eyes him in shock, “Iwa-chan, I was lamenting my horrible day today and you hit me?! What kind of friend are you, Iwa-chan? What kind of friend--"

“I’m the kind of friend that doesn’t hang out with you as a consolation prize, dumbass!”

And Hajime is grabbing his face with both hands, looking him in the eye like nothing else exists, words hushed as he promises, “We’ll get him next time. We will, Oikawa.”

Oikawa stares at him with his mouth agape and his eyes wide, corners growing damp as shooting stars begin to slice across the sky outside.

He sniffles once before easing Hajime’s hands from his face, turning back to the window and pressing his forehead to the glass, “We’ll definitely get him next time, Iwa-chan.”

Hajime lets go of his hands, moving to mimic his position and tilting his head to knock against Oikawa’s gently.

“Of course we will, idiot,” He looks up at the sky and smiles, “Now shut up and watch your damn space rocks.”

Oikawa watches the lights ribbon against the ink of the night sky, but Hajime finds himself watching the gasps and delighted expressions his best friend makes from the corner of his eye.

 

\---

 

Oikawa.

Not a king, not a genius, not a galaxy, or even a force of nature. When Hajime closes his eyes, none of these things continue to exist. But.

But _Oikawa_.

When Hajime closes his eyes, Oikawa is a constellation beneath the delicate curtain of his eyelids. He is spots of color and light painted against Hajime’s vision, a bright kaleidoscope of possibilities he has the skill to see.

Oikawa, the boy. Oikawa, the setter. Oikawa, the captain. Oikawa. Oikawa. Oikawa.

To Hajime, on and off the court, with and without gold hanging off his neck --

Exists.

 

**Author's Note:**

> SEIJOUUUUUUUUUUUU.


End file.
